


Killing For Love

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Bandits & Outlaws, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Falsely Accused, Life-Saving, M/M, Pseudo-History, Romance, Slow Build, Survivor Guilt, Western, Wild West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a wanted fugitive in the Wild West. Stiles is the sheriff's son. They shouldn't have anything to do with each other, but then, fate intervenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing For Love

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltmFvdVDoIM) by José González.

* * *

 

When Derek staggers into the barn, clutching at his bleeding arm and stumbling into the nearest haystack, all he knows is that he’s got to get away. The Argents - vengeful, plotting bastards - are after him, and he’s just escaped an execution. As if that isn’t enough, his name’s on every ‘Wanted’ poster in town, under a sketch that, unfortunately, does him justice.

He’s already dug the bullet out with a knife, but now he’s bleeding badly enough to faint if he doesn’t staunch it, soon. All he needs is some straw to pack around his wound, and he’ll be able to move on. He’ll be -

“Whoa, there,” says someone, and Derek whips around, hand going to where his holster used to be, before the sheriff took it off of him.

Shit. No gun. He reaches for his knife -

“Relax,” says the… kid, it’s a  _boy_ , Christ, what if Derek had pulled out a gun? What if he’d shot the brat? “I won’t hurt you. You’re, um. You’re kind of bleedin’ all over my floor, here - ”

Derek lurches toward him, knife drawn, because he doesn’t want to hurt the boy, but he  _can_  keep him still long enough to tie him up and move on. Unfortunately, Derek is also dizzier than he can ever recall being in his life, thanks to all the blood he’s losing, and his grip around the knife is slippery with it. He stumbles into the kid instead of attacking him, and then, against every ounce of his will, his knees give way and he ends up dropping, helplessly, to the floor.

“Jesus. You’re Derek Hale. Your face is plastered all over the place.”

And the boy’s going to scream. He’s going to scream the barn down, and Derek can’t stop him, and Derek’s going to be taken back into custody and hung like he was supposed to be hung, albeit for a crime he didn’t commit -

But the boy isn’t screaming. He’s just studying Derek - Derek’s arm, in particular - and is still talking. Doesn’t he ever shut up? “You look like death warmed over, man. That’s bleeding pretty bad. Want me to wrap it up? Here, hold still.” And the boy crouches next to him, ripping off his own sleeve, bundling it and pressing it to the wound. “I’m just gonna wrap this up - ”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Stopping the bleeding, I think.”

“I could be out to kill you.”

The boy gives him a funny look. “You’re on the verge of dying from a bullet-wound, and you’re giving me advice? If you’re really that angelic, then why’re you wanted for murder?”

“I didn’t kill my sister,” Derek grits out, and the kid just looks at him.

“Huh,” he says, and finishes wrapping Derek’s arm. He’s good at it, like he does this all the -

Wait. All of a sudden, the boy becomes familiar - those eyes - that upturned nose -

This is the sheriff’s son. The  _sheriff’s son_. Derek remembers him clearly, just before Derek’s scheduled hanging, standing next to his father and turning his face away -

Derek stumbles back, on his knees, and rasps: “You’re the sheriff’s son.” Stiles, he must be Stiles Stilinski, the sheriff’s kid,  _god_ , how could Derek have been so stupid as to stumble into the sheriff’s barn, of all the goddamn -

The kid - Stiles - lifts his hands, as if reassuring Derek that he isn’t armed. “My dad’s the sheriff, yeah.”

“Why haven’t you called him, then?”

“Because you’re dying, dumbass. I thought it was more important to, oh, I dunno,  _save your life_  rather than go running to my daddy.”

“Why would you want to save my life?”

Stiles stares at Derek, like Derek’s the lunatic, not him. “Uh, because you have one? It’d be sort of pointless trying to save your life if you were, like, an undead vampire, or something - “

“I mean,” Derek says, slowly, pressing his hand to the bandage Stiles has wrapped around his arm, “I’m due for execution. For murder. And you’re the sheriff’s son. Why the hell are you trying to save my life?”

“You said you didn’t kill your sister.” Stiles shrugs. “And you don’t look like a killer. You’re too damn idiotic to be the sort of killer the Argents are makin’ you out to be, anyway, with the plotting and the scheming to get your sister’s land.”

“I could still be a killer,” Derek argues, and Stiles’s eyebrows shoot up.

“See what I mean? Are you trying to convince me of your guilt, or what? Who  _does_  that?”

A wave of dizziness crashes over Derek, and he sways.

Just like that, Stiles’s arms are around him. Supporting him. “Listen,” Stiles says, quietly, into Derek’s ear. “I thought your trial was kind of weird. Kind of  _really_  weird. My dad had misgivings, too; he just didn’t say anything, ‘cause Chris Argent owns this town, and the evidence was stacked against you. My point is, you _could_  be innocent. And I can’t let an innocent man die. So,” he heaves Derek upright, panting, “I ain’t gonna let you die. Not until I figure this shit out.”

“You’re crazy,” Derek slurs, his vision greying at the corners.

“ _You’re_  crazy. I don’t think a guy that just escaped execution to end up stumbling into the sheriff’s barn can get any crazier. By the way, I’m takin’ you up to my room. My dad’s not home yet, because he’s out looking for you. Ironic, don’tcha think?”

Derek’s head lolls back on Stiles’s shoulder.

“Anyway, you’re gonna hide out in my room and not die, and I’m gonna figure out if and when to turn you in. But right now, your top priority is not dying. Got me?”

“Got you,” Derek croaks, and tries not to wince when every move of Stiles jostles his arm. It’s starting to hurt worse now, perversely, and if Derek  _could_  move, he’d be outta here, but he can’t, so he lets Stiles stagger-walk him out of the barn and into the adjoining house, which is large, on account of being the sheriff’s, and Stiles tries not to drop Derek as they stumble up the stairs.

Finally, Derek is in a small room filled with bric-a-brac and books, and is lowered gingerly onto the narrow bed in one shadowed corner.

His arm gets caught under him, for a moment, and the pain is blinding. He must have made a noise, because Stiles is clapping a palm over his mouth, clammy and sweaty, saying, “Shut up, shut up, shut  _up_. God, if you shout like that again, everyone within a five-mile radius will know I’m harboring a fugitive. Fuck.”

Derek is beyond processing half of what Stiles is saying, swiftly losing consciousness, but the last thing he feels is Stiles tugging on his boots, taking them off, and then coming back to lay a worried hand on his forehead.

“…damned suicidal cowboys with handsome features,” is the last thing Derek hears, before he passes out, but that doesn’t make any sense.

 

* * *

**TBC.**


End file.
